


Warm

by Minunlike



Category: End Roll (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Family Bonding, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, References to Drugs, basically a lot of fucked up stuff, even though it's pretty much too late, hashtag let russell be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 06:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15090788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minunlike/pseuds/Minunlike
Summary: ‘Father… how do I devote myself to a God who doesn’t love me?’





	Warm

**Author's Note:**

> min logic: 'gee what's a good way to get back into writing? oh how about writing a fic for a 2-year-old rpgmaker game whose fandom is mostly dead?'
> 
> even so, this game gave me more feelings than I know what to do with. so here's an obscenely long oneshot I wrote off and on while playing through different parts of the game, about russell's relationship with dogma and cody because they're my favorite
> 
> enjoy! all three of you who are still here ;v;

[This world is cold.]

[From the day I was born, that has been the only constant in my life.]

[There's no love out there, no compassion, no security, no warmth. Those are all fantasies fed to us by shady businessmen and sick perverts, and anyone who blindly believes in them is either deluded or just as shady themselves.]

[There's no such thing as charity or goodwill. There's no such thing as unconditional love. Dig deep enough beneath any act of kindness, and you'll always find the cold, hard truth: that when it all comes down to it, nobody ever really cares about anything or anyone but themselves.]

[There’s no point in trying to “reform” me. There’s no point in making me “better”. It won’t make a difference. Once I’m “cured” and dumped back into the normal world, I’ll be on my own. No sane human being will take me in or even get close to me, and it’ll just happen all over again.]

[This isn't "rehabilitation". It's torture. They just want to torture me and pass it off as something that will help me. They don't care.]

[No one can be happy around me.]  
[No one can care about me.]  
[No one can love me.]  
[They never did before.]  
[And they never will.]

[They never will.]

[They never]

 

[T.hhey nnnnnņ e v̕ e̶eee҉ v͏eȩe҉ ͝ ęv͠ ͢ ̴ ŗ ̡ ]

 

     

                                                                                             [ w ͠il̶͞l. ]

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

…There was a little church in my town.

It was far from the _only_ church in my town, of course. But I became fond of this particular church because it was a 45-minute bus trip away from my house, and another 45 back. Just close enough to safely and discreetly make the commute alone, but just far enough to keep me outside and out of harm’s way for that much longer.

So whenever I needed to spend an _exceptionally_ long time out of the house, and I could scrounge up the fare money or get bus passes from Chris’s mom, I’d take the bus to church and just hang around for a while.  

I began going to church quite a lot.

I wasn’t even that interested in the religious part of it... I just liked the place for how quiet and clean it was inside. No one ever yelled or got into fist-fights or made any messes in there. Everyone was calm, respectful, and welcoming to whatever random losers felt like turning up. It never smelled like garbage or booze or cigarette smoke, but it also didn’t have that sterile, headache-inducing hospital smell I'd come to hate.

The priest never complained or kicked me out, no matter how long I stayed there or what ungodly hour it was when I turned up. He didn’t speak to me much at all, actually. He was always too busy cleaning and dusting every inch of the place when he wasn’t doing priest work. As long as I stayed quiet and out of the way (a skill I’d mastered by then), he’d leave me alone to do whatever I pleased.

That church was somewhere I could run to when I’d had enough of everything else. When I couldn’t take the sound of Dad firing off swear words while he puked his guts all over the kitchen floor, or when I was tired of listening to Mom’s squeaky bed frame while she flailed around with the Stranger of the Day, it was one of my escapes.

Most of the time, I’d just sit around the pews and watch other people come and go. Whenever the priest was up there giving one of his big, dramatic sermons, I’d sit back and listen to him. Every now and then, when I was bored enough, I’d pick up a bible and skim over a few pages, just to give myself something to think about after I left.

Sometimes… when I really, really, _Desperately_ needed something to keep my thoughts quiet, I’d pick up a rag or a duster from the supply closet and I’d start cleaning.

The priest looked so surprised when he first caught me doing it, the startled expression on his normally stone-cold serious face was almost comical. But once the surprise wore off, he just nodded silently before turning back to his own work.

That was how I spent a lot of my nights. Wiping down every surface I could reach, no noises to bother me other than the soft brushing of fabric and the priest's occasional coughing and wheezing.

Maybe it made me look weird. Most kids my age hated to do anything remotely resembling work, but for me… it was something that I could actually call peaceful. Or meaningful. Or warm...

It left a weird, warm sensation in my chest, so different from the cold numbness that was usually there. It made me stop and think.

Was this what people felt when they believed in God? Was this how it felt to do something for the good of all humans and not just yourself?

… I liked it. I wanted to hold on to that feeling for as long as I could.

So I kept coming back, again and again and again.

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

 

… One night, after a week or so of that little routine, the priest spoke to me directly for the first time.

_“Young man, why do you always come here at such strange hours?”_

All I could do was give him a noncommittal shrug. It might have been the way he looked at me afterwards, or the way he crossed his arms, that made me reflexively flinch and brace myself. I couldn’t tell if he noticed or not. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

He waited a while for a more concrete answer. Then, when he finally realized I wasn’t going to give him one, he uncrossed his arms and sighed softly through his nose.

_“All right… if you don’t wish to say it, I won’t force you. I’m just a bit concerned for your safety… at this late hour, I believe you would be better off at home.”_

_No I wouldn’t_ , my thoughts snapped at him like a reflex.

_“Someone your age, here by yourself so late at night… Does your family know where you are? I’m sure they must be worried sick.”_

**_No they’re not,_** my thoughts screamed at him over and over. **_No they’re not. No they’re not. No they’re not. No they’re not._**

But I couldn’t say anything like that out loud. All I could do was sit up, look him in the eyes, and ask him a question.

‘Father… how do I devote myself to a God who doesn’t love me?’

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

...

After that night, the priest seemed to start going out of his way to keep an eye on me when I came to church.

He’d read passages with me, then attempt to explain them in terms a sheltered kid with no religious experience could understand. He’d try to make small talk with me while we were cleaning, most of which just turned into one-sided lectures about today’s reckless youth or some sad crime he’d heard on the news. He’d offer to help me with my schoolwork in the rare event that I decided to actually go to school and actually do the work they assigned me.

Maybe he took pity on me because of what I asked him that night. I suppose a person like him who claims to harbor love for all the Lord’s creations would do that. I wasn’t really bothered by it… he was never too invasive or forceful about it, even if he did like to nag me whenever I did anything ‘reckless’ or ‘unhealthy’.

…...

Sometimes his sister would be there, too. I’d seen her around before, but we’d never really talked or anything until her brother started paying attention to me. She was a member of the church like him, but a lot more relaxed and casual about religious things than he was.

She would always treat me nicely when I was there. She’d play board games and video games with me when her brother was too busy with his church duties. She was also closer to my age, and she kind of gave off a ‘cool older sibling’ vibe whenever we did things together. It was kinda nice… when it was just me and her, at least.

The priest liked to lecture his sister just as much as he liked to lecture me, maybe even more. Unlike me, though, she actually had the balls to talk back to him and make jokes  at his expense. He was apparently six years older than her, but to anyone who didn’t know better, he acted more like her overprotective dad than her big brother most of the time.

The way he scolded and reprimanded her, the way he fretted and fussed over her, the way he panicked and scrambled to help her at the first sign that she needed it…  it made me stop and think.

Those were all things a good dad was supposed to do, weren’t they...?

Maybe... if I’d been born to someone like that, instead of the person that God had picked to be my dad… I wondered if I could have been happier. I wondered if maybe I could have been a cool and relaxed kind of person like his sister was.

When I thought about that, it gave me a weird feeling. It was warm, like that nice, peaceful feeling I’d felt before. But this time, it didn't feel peaceful or comforting.

It hurt.

It was nice to know that good dads may not be entirely a myth, and that they might be more common in the world than I initially thought. But when I remembered that none of them were my dad, and that my dad would never in his life be one of them… . .

… From then on, I decided that I didn’t like the priest’s sister very much.

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

 

I continued going to church, despite the dull ache I felt whenever the priest’s sister was there.

Once in a while, I would come in with Dad-bruises that hadn’t fully faded yet, just to see how worked up the priest would always get when he noticed them. He’d pull me inside and give me ice packs for the really ugly ones on my face, just like the nurse from the hospital down the street would always do. He’d make me sit still while he wiped away all the dirt and dried blood, and I could see how much he was struggling not to go into full-blown lecture mode.

 _“It’s not my business if you don’t wish to make it my business,”_ he’d always say, barely concealing his frustration. _“But I get the feeling there’s something more serious behind this than normal schoolyard horseplay…”_

He wanted so badly for me to confide in him. I could hear it in his voice, I could see it in his fretful eyes. And to tell the truth, sometimes I wished just as badly that I could let myself go and tell him everything. Just let every little thing spill right there.

But I couldn’t do that, because the flowery words of love and forgiveness that he preached were a lie. None of his comforting fantasies meant a thing in my cold and ugly reality.

If he ever met the disgusting people who brought me into the world, he’d see how disgusting I really was and condemn me in a heartbeat. If he knew the horrible things I’d fantasized about doing and saying, he’d promptly dump me in the street and forbid me from coming anywhere near him or his sacred church again.

So no matter how much it hurt both of us, I kept my mouth tightly shut.

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

 

When I bashed the nice zookeeper’s head in, I think something died in my heart.

I went to church that day, after I’d washed away the blood and changed clothes at home. I prayed for him over and over, even though I knew I was already beyond God’s forgiveness.

I should have felt worse about what I’d done, I understood that. But no matter how much I played it over in my head, all I could remember was the anger. The screeching. The annoying screeching monkeys that wouldn’t shut up and the clanging of metal that wouldn't stop.

**[Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Stop making my head hurt. Stop making everyone hate me. Stop driving away every halfway decent person that comes into my life.]**

…

When I was done praying, I went outside to help the priest sweep the front sidewalk. I knew it wouldn’t do anything to help me atone, but it made me feel calmer and helped quiet the screeching that was still ringing in my ears.

While I was sweeping, I kept getting distracted by the sight of the vines that were growing along the church walls. There were so many of them, and they grew so thickly in places that the walls themselves seemed to be made of vines. There were flowers, too. All along those vines, there were huge purple flowers that seemed so out of place against the white walls...

‘Why don’t you ever do anything about the vines?’ I asked the priest as we were taking a breather on the front step. ‘They’re all over the walls and they make the building look like it's falling apart. Why won’t you get rid of them?’

He gave me an odd look as he was contemplating the question, but it didn’t take long for him to answer with full confidence.

 _“They’re living things, just like we are,”_ he said. _“It wouldn't be right of me to remove them when they’re doing no harm.”_

I couldn’t understand his reasoning, no matter how hard I thought about it. He seemed so certain of those words, even though they didn’t make sense to me. I tried to make sense of them, but all it did was frustrate me more.

‘But they’re not supposed to grow there. They don’t do anything helpful, they just make everything around them look run-down and ugly. I hear people complain about them all the time. No one likes them, there’s no reason to keep them, so why-...’

I cut myself off. I realized I’d raised my voice more harshly than I meant to, and the last time that happened, it ended up getting me another-

… I didn’t try to argue any further. I kept quiet and sat perfectly still and didn’t move, not even to breathe.

For a while, the priest didn't answer. He just turned and stared thoughtfully at the vine-covered wall… then he turned back to me, and for the first time I could remember, he was smiling.

_“There’s not a single living thing on this Earth that exists without a reason.”_

He didn’t say anything else, just stood up and returned to his sweeping. I didn’t feel like helping anymore and I didn’t want to stay there any longer, so once I’d calmed down enough to breathe normally again, I left my broom by the door and went home.

I went over our conversation again and again and again in my head for the entire walk back, but I never came any closer to understanding any of it. The whole thing just frustrated me all over again and put me in an awful mood. It certainly didn’t help me to be greeted at the door the sound of Mom’s shameless sex noises echoing through the whole house, gasping and moaning and squeaking as she went at it with yet another stranger.

My mind wandered off on another tangent as I set up camp in the laundry room, the quietest part of the house.

Mom had been doing these dirty things so much, for so long, with so many people, and knowing her vocal aversion to using birth control of any kind… how many other kids had she accidentally brought into existence? Were there any besides me that she’d actually allowed to be born...?

Why did she choose to keep me, and none of them? If she hated me so much, then why would she keep me alive and no one else? Why put both of us through this misery if it would’ve been that easy to end my life before it even started?

What reason could there possibly be...?

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

 

One day, the priest’s sister ran into the church with a handful of paper scraps and a giddy smile.

_“There's a festival downtown, and I've got tickets! C’mon, brother, get yourself out of this dusty old church for a while and come have fun with us!”_

She tugged excitedly on the priest's arm as he started sputtering annoyed retorts and halfhearted excuses to stay behind and clean. I couldn't do much other than stand back and watch them, confused about the way she’d worded that invitation.

When she said _“us"_ , did she actually mean-

Before I could even finish that thought, she turned and smiled directly at me.

_“Wanna come check it out with me? I've got an extra ticket with your name on it!”_

Right away, my brain froze up. I had no idea what to say or how to react. At first, every part of me wanted to tell her no, but at the same time…

I'd never been to a festival before. Festivals were a fun thing, they were a privilege that only good boys got to experience. Good boys with money, or with parents who had the time and the money to waste on useless, frivolous things like festivals.

I wasn’t a good boy anymore, I knew that. But deep down, I still wanted to go. I wanted to see what it was like. And if it kept me away from home a little longer today...

 

‘Uh… sure, if it's okay with you guys…’

 

_……_

It overwhelmed me a little, at first. So many people out in the streets at once, so many sights and sounds and smells that were completely and totally new to me. They didn't feel bad, though. It was the opposite, actually; I was overwhelmed by how good they all felt.

 _“Stay close to me,”_ the priest said sternly. _“Hang onto my arm if you need to. We don’t want to lose you in this busy crowd.”_

I didn’t need to be told twice. I held onto his sleeve with one hand, and his sister took my other hand.

That was how we walked around for most of the festival, the two of them on each side and me in the middle. It was the classic image of a picture-perfect family. Two happy parents walking hand-in-hand with their happy child skipping between them, and the warmth people feel in their hearts when they see such a close bond shared by such a happy family.

It hurt.

This wasn’t my family. I wasn’t part of their happy bond. I had no right to feel this kind of warmth.

I thought I wasn’t supposed to feel anything warm anymore.

We did a lot of the things happy families probably do at festivals. I didn’t have my own money, but they both insisted on spending theirs to buy me food from the stands and let me try some of the games they had set up. I kept telling them that they didn’t have to, that I could eat when I got home, that I was fine just splitting with them and watching them do things, but they kept spending their money on me.

The more nice things they gave me, the more it hurt. But I kept accepting them, because I didn’t know what else I was supposed to do.

It was normal for happy families to spoil their kids like this sometimes... wasn’t it?

They kept asking me which stands I wanted to look at and what foods I wanted to try. The priest’s sister played a few games with me. We somehow managed to talk the priest into playing one of them, and people laughed at how intensely serious he was about it. A lot of the time, we just walked around and looked at the pretty scenery.   

The food they gave me was warm. Their hands were warm when they were holding mine. They made the warmth swell in my chest until it felt like it was burning.

It hurt.  
It hurt.  
What was I doing here?  
Why did these strangers keep treating me so kindly for no reason?  
Why was I allowed to have so much of their kindness but none of it from the two people in my life who actually m _attered_ …? ?

 

…

  
_“Honestly, Cody… you’re a grown woman now. Please try to refrain from conducting yourself in such a rowdy and unladylike manner, especially at a public gathering like-”_

_“Aw, quit being such a wet blanket! It’s a festival, it’s okay to be a little loud and crazy! Lighten up already and just let yourself have fun…”_

I listened to them bicker lightheartedly back and forth while I took small sips of the soda that I had all to myself. I wasn’t actually thirsty, but I told myself that I would drink it all.

The festival was going to end. And once it ended, all the warmth would be gone. I would go back home, and everything would be cold again. No one would look at me kindly anymore and no one would care what I wanted anymore and just thinking about it hurt worse than if I’d never felt warm in the first place.

I hated it. I hated that I liked this so much when I knew it wouldn’t last. I hated watching these people be happy and knowing they’d be just as happy without me. I hated knowing I’d have to go back to that disgusting house alone and be with those disgusting people and listen to their disgusting words and feed their disgusting addictions and take their disgu st ing be a ting s and  
I

dropped my cup.

 

I looked down at the soda all over the ground, and something inside of me broke.

I couldn’t hear their bickering voices anymore. My thoughts started screaming at me nonstop until I couldn’t hear anything anymore, and the ugly disgusting feelings I thought had died forever came pouring out all at once.

**_[s̢pill̴e̴d͜ ͞t͏h͠e͝ ̧w̧h͢o̢l͏e ͏thin̵g a͏g͢a͏in̢ you̵ ͡wa͞st͢e̢f͜ưl l͟it͝t̶le shit͜]̵_ **

I couldn’t hear my own voice but I knew I was crying. I felt the tears start rolling and it made them all scream even louder and angrier and it hurt to breathe.

**_[all ̡y͟ou ever̕ ̷d͡o is̨ mak̡e҉ o҉u̵ŗ l̡ive̢s͜ a l͠i̶vi͟n̡g̸ hell͠]_ **

I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder and my whole body froze up, and I kept trying to swallow my sobs down but they just wouldn’t stay in. The hand pulled me into a loose hug that I let happen because my legs wouldn’t move and my vision was covered in dark fabric.

          **_[s͘o̶ ͜emb̶a̷r҉r̷a͜ssi̛ng̶ ̢ca̸n̢’ţ ta̸ke ͟y̷ou͜ ҉a̸n҉y̶w͠h͘er͘e]_ **

**_[̡us͠ele̢ss̢ us͏el̨ess u̸s̸e͟less͟]_ **

**_[ḑr͝op ̧thi͝s̶ o̢ne a͏n͜d̢ y͏o҉u͡’ll wi͝s̨h͞ i͘t wa̧s̵ ̸j̛us̴t͞ a ̶b͠r͏u͞ise̡]_ **

They were all angry and miserable again and it was my fault. I tried to tell them I was sorry. I told them over and over and over. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m s̴orry̢ I̛’͘m s̵orry̷ ̵I’m͡ s͏o̡r̸ry I’m̛

                                **_[̕oh s͡hut ̵up no҉ ̧one’s ̨g̛onna̷ f͡e̵e͝l ̕s̨orry͟ ͝f͜or yo҉u͡]͢_ **

 

Somewhere in the middle of the screaming, a voice spoke softly by my ear.

_“It’s all right, son. You’re all right.”_

I braced myself for the pain, but it didn’t come. I tried to keep apologizing but my throat gave out and it turned into a fit of coughing instead.

_“You’re all right... Relax. Deep breaths.”_

That voice that had always spoken so sternly and rigidly before was so gentle now. I heard it breathing slowly and evenly, and I did my best to match it no matter how much my throat still hurt.

**_[͝us͡el͟e̸ss]_ **

_“It’s all right.”_

**_[ u͢sel̴ ̶e̡s͝s̴ ]͞_ **

_“You’re okay.”_

**_[ ͘ ̨u͠ s͘ e l e̶ s s ͏ ͏_ ** _s ͏ ̛]̶_

_“Just breathe...”_

**_[͞ ͡ ̕ ̛ ͘u ̡ ̕ ̸ ̶ ҉ ̸ ͜ ͡ ̛_ ** _̕ ̶ s l ͏ ̛ ͞ ͠ s͞ ͝     s͏ ͡ ͝ ]̡_

 

_“... That’s it.”_

_…_

 

Little by little, the screaming quieted down until it was only faint white noise in the back of my head, like normal.

When I finally felt calm enough to pull away, I saw the priest and his sister both looking down at me. They didn’t look angry. They didn’t look annoyed or disgusted or like they’d rather be anywhere but here with me. The priest just held his cross necklace and sighed, while his sister smiled and offered me a tissue.

_“The fireworks are gonna start in a few minutes…  do you feel okay to stay and watch ‘em, or do you want us to take you home now?”_

My head was fuzzy from crying, and I couldn’t breathe through my nose very well, but when I saw them both still looking so kindly at me... it didn’t hurt quite so much anymore.

After I was done wiping the tears and snot from my face, I found it in me to smile back at her.

‘Mhm… I’m okay. Let’s stay and watch the fireworks.’

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

 

‘Father… do you wanna have kids someday?’

I asked that question offhand on the bus ride home. I was sitting between him and his sister in the window-facing seats, trying to find any excuse to stay awake.

He sputtered at that question, then struggled to regain his composure while his sister on my other side was struggling not to laugh at his reaction. They had a short back-and-forth of teasing and flustered scolding that I was too sleepy to keep up with before he finally settled down enough to give me an answer.

 _“W-Well. I think it’s a bit_ early _for me to be worrying over such a serious and life-altering decision…”_ He coughed awkwardly and fell silent for a while, the kind of silence that tells you someone’s thinking very carefully about what they want to say. _“But I suppose, if the Lord decides it… if that’s the future He wants for me, I’m prepared to-”_

‘I know you’d do it if God wanted it. That’s not what I’m asking.’

I cut in before I could stop myself, suddenly irritated enough to sit up and look him in the face.

 _‘_ It’s not enough to do things like that because you think _God_ wants it. Do _you_ want it?’

He just stared back at me, not saying a thing. He was probably struck speechless by the outright blasphemy I’d just demonstrated before him. I couldn’t keep looking at his face anymore. Instead, I looked down at my feet and tried to stutter out a half-decent apology.

‘S… Sorry, I didn’t... mean to say it like that, I just wanted to...um……’

I couldn’t finish that sentence, and he didn’t finish it for me. He just let out one of his quiet little sighs and turned to look out the nearby window.  Neither of us said a word, but it gave us plenty of time to think. Really, I was just glad to see him actually thinking about it.

After riding in that quiet for 15 uneventful minutes or so, he sat up and turned to me with something that could vaguely qualify as a smile.

_“Mhm… it’s certainly not a priority right now, but it’s something nice to think about. As it stands now, though, I don’t have the knowledge or the facilities or the reliable income a father would need to sustain-...”_

I leaned into his side, and he stopped talking. Fatigue had finally come back to bite me, and my house was still half an hour away, but I could tell I wouldn’t be able to stay awake for that long.

I closed my eyes and sighed contentedly.

‘... I think you’d be a good dad.’

He stopped talking again after that. I heard his sister start to say something teasing that I couldn't follow, and then the whole world faded into nothing.

…

 

……

 

...

 

… I was nudged awake when the doors opened at my stop. I got off with all my things, staying to watch the bus until it disappeared down the street, and then turned to start the walk back to my dirty, run-down house.

Once I was safely inside, I went directly to the laundry room and lay down in the corner, settling in to sleep with the first clean towel I could find as my blanket.

And the whole world was cold again.

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

 

When I watched my classmate’s corpse tumble down the stairs and crumble like a flaky birthday cake, I think I broke a little more.

I went to Chris’s house after the party. He was talking to me about some drug stash he’d swiped off the shady guy we’d been “doing business” with recently. I might have heard it wrong, I wasn’t really listening.

I knew he was grieving, I could see him crying. I could see his puffy eyes and tear-stained face, even though he tried to smile and laugh it off like he usually would. But I couldn’t feel the sadness he was feeling, no matter how hard I tried to. I couldn’t tell him that sadness was my fault, either, or he’d hate me forever. I tried to pay more attention to him, but all I could think about was the screaming and squelching and sobbing in my head that kept playing over and over and over and wouldn’t **stop.**

He gave me a handful of pills and a glass of water. _“Try these,”_ he said, _“Maybe they’ll help us calm down.”_ And I made myself swallow them all, because I thought they might help me forget.

They didn’t. They made my brain crawl and my body twitch and all my angry ugly thoughts started screeching louder than ever.

So Chris let me have one of the super strong flavored beers his mom likes to drink, and I made myself chug it all down even though I couldn’t stand the smell or the taste, because I thought it’d help my brain be quiet. Or help me die. Whichever came first, at the time I didn’t care.

And it sort of did get quiet for a while. I just felt really dizzy and tired and gross more than anything. But my house wasn’t that far so I told Chris I could walk home by myself and he le t me.

For some reason I didn’t just go straight hom e.  instead I walked and walked and w alked and I think I took the bus at some point. And then suddenly there was the church, and since the door w asn’t locked I went in side.

The stuf f after that was super h azy. I saw the priest dusti ng stuff o f f for a second and then i fell down o n the carpet. i think i thr ew up a couple times a nd th en i heard a  voi ce and two people’s foo tstep s and f el t so meo ne p ick me u p bu t i fel l a sleep before i sa w w h o . . .

...

i woke up a bit and someone was carrying me into the front part of the hospital. i couldn’t reallysee much but i could feel them wheezing and coughing a lot kinda like the priest always does when he cl eans too much or tries to run anywhere. and i might’ve laughed a little if i didn’t still feel so si c k...

...

...

The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. There was something plastic over my face, I think. I couldn’t see what. I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to see anything really, but since it was a hospital, I figured I should probably leave it alone. So I just let my eyes close and went back to sleep.

...

I spent close to a week in that hospital bed, maybe a little longer. It all felt like one huge blur to me, though. I spent most of it drifting in and out of sleep.

Now and then, whenever I was sort of semi-awake, I felt someone’s hand gently stroking my shoulder. Sometimes, I heard people talking by my bed. Sometimes it was the priest’s voice, sometimes his sister’s. Sometimes, I heard the nurse who was always sneaking me cold compresses. Once or twice, I heard Chris and his mom. And once, on one of the days I spent half-asleep, the priest and his sister came in with an older-sounding lady I didn’t remember at all.

At first, I was always too tired to listen or answer them. But even when I was strong enough to stay awake, I’d pretend to be asleep so they wouldn’t leave.  

Sometimes, I could hear them address me by name. Their voices were gentle and warm. The hand on my shoulder was warm. The blanket over my body was warm…

It hurt.

It hurt to have all of these generous, wonderful people continuously wasting their warmth and  kindness on absolute trash.

Absolute trash that skips school and steals money from his parents.  
Absolute trash that drinks underage and makes himself sick on stolen drugs.  
Absolute trash that kills good people because they remind him of how pathetic his life is.  
Absolute trash that can’t do anything but ruin everything and everyone around him.

It would’ve been kinder of them if they’d just left me to die.

  
But even though it hurt… I still liked it.

I still wanted it.  
I wanted to be spoiled.  
I wanted to be doted on.  
I wanted to matter to other people.  
I wanted someone

a n y o n e

to give me a reason to be here.

If it was so easy for these strangers to give me kindness that I didn’t deserve… why could I never give anything back to them? Why couldn’t I be someone who deserved their kindness?   

……

 

I woke up one night to a bunch of voices outside of my hospital room. Most of them were too muffled to follow, but I could hear one voice loud and clear above all the rest.

That familiar, annoying, grating, screeching sound that terrorized my thoughts day in and day out. I heard it echo through the hallway outside, drowning out everything around it.

And I remembered why.

  
**_[-you ̧b͟ȩen ̧gettin͢’ fr͠i̛end̸ly ͘w͘it̴h l҉i̸tt͜l͞e bo͢y͘s i̢n͞ ̨ch̛u͘rch̵ b̧eh҉ind̷ ͏their p͞arent̡s’̵ ͜b͞a͠cks͠,̵ hu͠h͝?͠ you ̵g͞et̛ ̕of͡f͜ o̢n tha̶t s͞ick͠ ̵cra̢p?]_ **

I struggled to make out the other voices that were trying to talk him down. I could hear the priest and the nurse doing most of the talking, and for a short second I heard the older lady that I didn’t really remember. The few words I could clearly understand were urging him to keep his voice down and watch his language and “that’s your son in there” and other generic things like that.

But he didn’t listen. He’d never listened before, and I knew he wasn’t about to start now.

I tried to block it all out. I pulled my pillow over my ears and pressed down as hard as I could, but it wasn’t enough. I bunched my sheets up over them and pressed down harder and harder and harder until my ears hurt and my muscles gave out, but it still wasn’t enough to shut him out.

**_̴[Bottơm l͠i̴ne. ҉I catch ͏y̵o͜u ̨or ͝an̨y ̢oth҉er͏ r͡e̛l͢i̶giou̵s n̵u̷ţjo͢bs͝ ͡near͏ ͢m̛y ̷şon again̕, I’m c̨a̢ll͞i̶n͏g th͠e cops o͏ņ you͟r̡ ąsses.͞ Y̶o͢u g̸ot̢ t̵h̨a͜t?̸ You won’t be b͡e so͜ high-a̡nd͏-mi̛g̶h̵t͏y w͠h̛en ͝you’͢r̛e͘ a ̢r͟e̡g̴įste͏red ҉sex ̸o̡f͟f͢e̡n͜der,̸ t̢hat'̕s̡ ̵f̧o͝r ̵sur̸e!]̴_ **

The other voices were silent now. I took the pillow away from my ears and listened desperately for any sound from them, but there was none. After a short, painful silence, I heard one pair of footsteps echo down the hall until it faded in the distance. Then two more followed it, close together, nearly in sync with each other until they were gone.

Quickly, I laid out my pillow and pulled the sheets back over myself, feigning sleep just in time for him to shove my door open and then slam it deliberately behind him. I listened to him fumble with the TV remote while he cursed under his breath, and smiled to myself underneath the sheets.

This was my divine punishment.

I was never meant to be here. Whatever god existed out there was ashamed to have made me, and they were hellbent on making sure I’d never, ever forget that.

The harder I fought for a reason to keep living, the more I'd be punished for it. And all of the better, more lovingly-made people around me would have to keep suffering because my selfishness.

I was beyond hope.

We were _all_ beyond hope.

This _whole stupid world_ was beyond hope.

.  . .

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

 

Days, weeks, months went by before I walked into the church again.

It was a nice, clear afternoon. The priest was and his sister were talking in the front while the other churchgoers got ready for service to start. They both stopped to look at me when I walked over to them.

_“Hey there, good to see you again! It’s been a while, huh?  We were gettin’ kinda worried you’d moved away on us or something!”_

_“Welcome back. I’m glad to see you’ve made a full recovery.”_

They were smiling at me. After everything that happened, their faces were still so kind. Not one trace of disgust or resentment…  it just made this all the more painful for me.

But it was for them. It was better for them this way.

‘I can’t stay,’ I said quietly.

They looked a little disappointed, but still no trace of anger. I heard them say something like _“it was still nice to see you either way”_ , but I wasn’t paying attention.

I just needed to get this over with.

‘... There’s a criminal on the loose around here. You’ve seen it on the news, right? They’ve been killing random people around the neighborhood, and the police can’t find a motive or anything connecting the victims…’

They weren’t smiling anymore. They still weren’t angry, or even scared, but at least they weren’t smiling anymore.

‘I just thought I’d tell you… you should probably be careful going home. Maybe try and stick together if you’re gonna stay late again…’

They turned and exchanged a brief, troubled look between each other before they turned back to me. After a bit of uncomfortable silence, the priest finally forced himself to say something.

_“... No, we hadn’t heard about that... Thank you for the warning, we’ll certainly take care on our way out tonight.”_

That was all I wanted to hear. Though I knew it wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the end, those words lifted just a small bit of the weight from my heart.

I quickly turned around.

‘... That’s it. Bye.’

And I ran outside before they had the chance to say anything else. Before they could say something that would make me change my mind.

Once this was over, they wouldn’t suffer. And once their suffering was over, it would end my pain.

It was better this way. For me and for everyone.

It was better this way…

...

_[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]_

 

I came back late that night, when the sky was pitch-black.

The lights were still on inside. Through the window, I could see both of them walking around, cleaning and dusting things off. Just as I expected they would be.

Quietly, I took the gasoline and poured it around the perimeter of the building. The smell made my head hurt, but I powered through it somehow. Once that was done, I looked through the window again.

The lights were still on. They were still there.

It had to be now.

I hesitated at first. My hands shook as I opened the matchbox, and it took me a few tries to properly strike a match. My eyes kept falling back to the vines on the wall, covered in those purple flowers, and I remembered what the priest told me.

_[There’s not a single living thing on this Earth that exists without a reason.]_

It didn’t make any sense to me back then. But now, as I looked around at all the deep purple blossoms against the white walls, I finally understood what he meant. These vines had been here for a reason all this time...

They were here to help this building _burn_.

I couldn’t stand to keep visiting these people and risk putting them in the path of Dad’s miserable, toxic existence. But I couldn’t bear to stop visiting and know that they’d just move on with their warm, happy life as if I’d never been part of it.

Once it all burned down, they wouldn’t have to suffer because of him anymore. And I wouldn’t have to hurt because of them anymore.

It was better this way for everybody. Even the plants knew that.

So I threw down the match and ran.

I didn’t dare look back. I didn’t even need to. The fire was growing big enough to be seen even from the bus stop five blocks away. But it didn’t matter at that point. It was out of my hands now, and by the time I heard the sirens coming, I was already on the bus back home.  

I wouldn’t think about that fire. I wouldn’t think about the pain they had to go through, how much it must hurt to choke on ash until you couldn’t breathe while you could feel your skin slowly melt off your bones and then--

None of it mattered now. As horrible as any of it might feel at first, it was all just temporary. Their pain wouldn’t last, and once they were gone from this world, my pain would leave along with them.

It was okay. Everything was okay. This was the best possible outcome. I just did what I thought would be the least painful for everyone.

Right?

This was okay, right? It would have been worse if I’d left it alone, right? They weren’t in pain anymore, right? It wasn’t supposed to hurt like this anymore, right?

Maybe it was selfish of me. No, I knew it was selfish. I prayed silently on the bus, and apologized to God for how disgustingly selfish I was. But it was better this way. Not just for me, but for everyone. Surely he could understand that, whether or not he cared.

It was better this way.

It was better this way.

It was better this way.

It was b ett̛er th͝i͜ s̴ w͞ a̢y.

I t w҉w ̕as ̷b e ͡t ter t̵t̡h̷ is ̸way.̡

I͠ţ w̷a͞   ss ̢b̕bb e ţt͟e̡ _r t͜     his̢ ͡w̛ a͞ ͏   y._

_I̷t ̵̷͟w ̕͝a ̡ ̢͘s b͟ ̛͜ ̷̷͘et͘t҉͏ ͞ ̵͝ ̷͘ ̧er ̨̛͟t҉ ͜͡ h̢ ̧ ͝ ̕͟͜ ̷̧ ̴̕ i̵ ͘ ̷͢ ͘ ̷s̕ ̡w̸̨͝ ҉ ̶̨̡ ̴͢ ̴͏ ̨͟ą̕ ̵͢ ̴̶ ̶ ̡͟͠ ͟ ̛ ͟ ̸̷̨ ̴y̧͏.͠_

_I ͢ ̛t̶ ͜w ̕҉ ̷̡a͝ ̸̛͟ ͟͝͡ ̵_ **_s̶ ̛̛ ̵̡͜ ̧̢ ̸̢͝ ̵̕ ̢ ̵̧͘ ͟͞ ̷͢͡ ̸͏ ̡_ **

**_̶͟ ͏͟ ̷͞ ̧͜ ͝ ̵͠͠ ̴ ̶͢ ̨̨ ͠ ̨̛ ̧ ͝͏ ̢ ̨̕͢ ̛͏ ̕͞ ̷ ̴ ͠ ̴͞ ͢ ̕͜ ̡ ͡ ̧̛ ̡̢ ̸̸͢ ̶̧ ̕͠ ̨͟͡ ͏ ̷̢̛b̡ ̡͘͜ ̨͟͡ ̨̕ ͝ ͘͝ ẹ̜̭̦̺ ͔̮̪ͅ ̜̞ ̺͈ ̡̖͇͍ ̪̹̣̝̹ ̣̠͇͈ͅ ̵̝͕͇̞t ̷̼̘ ͡ ̡̼̞̜̜͉̳ ̪̹͖̲͇ͅ ̜̱ͅ ̰̻̖͓̼͜ ̺͈̟t̥̻̟̼̱̲̟ ̰̠̲̣̞̞̥ ҉̟̞̭͈ͅ ͇̹̜ ̺̮ ̧̮͉̮̬̟͖tt̢͚͚ ̧͕ ̯͉̜̳̖̤̖ ̝̖̤ ͚̗̙e̗ ̱̣ ̺͈ ̡̠ŗ͇r̙̯̥ ̼̬̹̹ ̷̼̗̦r ͙̻̮̤̱̯͉ ̲̹̞̲̼ ̢͔ ͈͝ ̷r̲̻͜ ̤̮͍͔̱͎ ̴̺̥͍̺͎ ̖͔̬̝ ̗̦̰͕ͅ ̞̩ ̧͕̰̩̗͖̹ͅ ̻͇͠ͅ ̷̺͚̹̞̩ ̶̟͚̞̜͔͕ ̺͖͖ ̸̦̱ ̯͚̪̘̜̫r͎͘ ̨̞ ̼̜̣̟̘̹̻ ̶͉ ͇͈͎̗ ̯̝̝̖̬ ̦̼͠_ **

 

_.̡̳͈̙͟ ̝ ̳͞ ̣̳̖̰̦̖͡ ͔̪̩̭̱̦ ̷̧̛͕̖ ̡̛̯̻̙ ͔̘͘ ͓̞͙̬͚͈̲̻ ҉̲̬̖ ͇̭̟̩͜͟͝ ̵̜̯̺̪͓͈͢ ̷̗̟̯̳͎̰̲̰ ̡͏̠̗.̮̺̰̫͎ͅ ̸̟̺̬͚͖͇̹ͅ ̥̲͠ ̶͉̼̘̝̙̩ ̤̗ ͔̟͟͝ ̛̹̩̭͔̼͘͞ͅ ̢͙̺͙͎͞ ̹ ̼̘̬̹͕̯.̻̭͙͚̩͜͜ ̸̩̜̘͎̯͈͇̪ ̩̭͇̭͕͖͇̰̕ ̝̤̫̱̲̞̤ ̲̞͓̞̜ ̟̮͠͡ ͕͖ ͜҉̬̥͉ ͏̞͓̖̦͇.͖͖̘̼ ̸͇̱̘͍͉̮͈͟ ̮͕̬͔̫ ҉͉̗̘̣͕̣͝ ͇͎̬̝͇ ̕͏̤͙̰͓ͅ ̺̮̯̼̦̗̕ ̛̛̗͕̱͘ ̧͍̹ ̶̹̝͉ ͏̖ ̷̘͔̳ ̧͉̙̦̰̮͟ ̵̖̗̙̮̜̮͙̣ͅ ͓̯͉̕ ̙̰̣̺͍͉̖̲ ̧͈͉̗̦̘̤.̶͓̞͎̘̕ .̴̢̢̜̥̟͇̪̬̤̰ͅ ͙͕̙̤͜͞ ̛̻̥͢ ̘̳̰͜͢ ̼͓ ̸̤̻̝̖̲͓͇͜ ̡͖͚̲̦ͅ ̛҉̱̭̫ ̸̩̩̰̱̱͚̫̦͠ ̢͏̱̜̣̞͇̮͖̘ ̣̮̫ ̴̧̱̼̻̬̞̠͙ ̢̩͍ ̷͙̳̯͎̳.͘҉̺͕̻̦̖ ̛̻̪̲͎̪͎̹͠ͅ ̷̫̭̠ ̗͎͍̼͠ ͏̴͇̣ ̴͈͓̲̻̱͢ ̸̵̧͙̙̫̗̣͈̝̞ ̟̺̬̘̤̖͡ ̣͉͘ ̯͖̩̲͕͜͝.̵͎̱͙̣͕̗̪ ̨̮̝̩͕͝ ̛̟͖͖̻͎̣̮͚͡ ̶̤͙͕̭͞ ̢̨̞̥̬̬͓̞ ͓̬͚̳̯ ̴̡̭̯͉̺͔͙̺͍̕ ͓̖̦͖̞̫̥͘ͅ ̢̛̦͇̰̮̣.̝̰̼͎̪͘ ̛̝̤̜͚̳̳̩̲͔̕͢ ̧͈̖ͅ ͏͇̙̲̭̰̮̝ ͢҉̲̦̖͔̱ ̘͕̲̣ͅ ͙̕ ͕͇͎̼͟ ̡̻͈͉͝ ̧̢̡̹̺͎ͅ ͘͏͚̼̫̬̞ͅͅ ̰͔͘ ̥̥̞͓̟ ̛͍͙̤̪͙̮ ̴̡̺͍̭̭̹̯͍̺ ̴̸̴̖͖̩̥̙̬͍ ͢͏̹͖.͓_

 

_..͏͓̬͇͕̟̘̰̹̝̬̻̣͈͚̞̮̥ ̪͔͍̫̖͘͢ ͓̭̰͇̜̳ͅ ̸͢͏̘̣͉̱̥̞̮̗̮̖͖̙̼̣͉ͅ ̲͈̯͕̙̻̝̩̭̙̙̗̻̬̥̘̥̫̤͡ ̸̧̢̮̲̣̳̞̺͚̬̺̣͈ͅ ̢̪̗̹̘͉ ̷̵̷̳͔͍̲͚͖̖͇͟ ҉͍̣̰̗̮̗̫̬͜͟ͅ ̸̡̻̻̱ ̸͏̦͙̗̣̭͔̞̯̣ ̢͉̻̮͚̞͓̼̪̫̤̖̱̦̼̼̗͖̪̙͠͠ ̜̫͔̜͎̳͜͝ ͏̷̛͠҉̟̤̲̪͉̺̦̙͇͇̼͚̼̦͕̰͚.҉̸͕̖͓̭̩̹͔̙̞͍͔̤̦̱̻͝ͅͅ ̢̦͖͚̣̭̠͍̱͈͎͎̬̱ ̷̪̥̻̟͖̟̫͕̳̺͈̤̙̟̗ ̱̻̘̣͈̰̤̜̩̗̦̕͟͝͞͠ ̵̣̪͇̥̠̤̣̙͉͙̟̪͔̪͈̣̬͢͡ ͓͇̘̭͉͚̞̙͎͔̺͇̫̙̱̗̘͟͟͡ͅ ̷̢̢̛̭̭͚̣̠̞͖͕̼̣̩͉̦̤͘ ̴̬̗͖̯͘͢ ̵̳̱͚̖̭̲͎͕͖̜̮̻̖̬̗̺̪̭̝̕͟ ̶̴͖̼̘̰̪̖͙͇̥͟͝͡ͅ.̷̧̛̟̙͓̦̗̙̯̳̩̠͔͉̗̺̞ ̳̠͕͓̪̺͍̤͟͠ͅͅ ̷̹̳̳̖̤̪̙͞ ̴̢̛̹̜̞̤̞̦̻̳̥̯̺̻̮͜ ̮͔͖͙̺̦͚̙̯̲͔̖̥̳͓̣̳̯͢ͅ ҉̖̮̖̹̹͞ ̵̨̢͉̼̝̫̱̩̗̲̱̤̳̠̭̞̞͡ ̧̡̢̗̞̩̠͕̼͔̻͔̤̦̫͙̟̱̼͜ ̡̦͚̦̩͖͖͈͇͔̺̼͉̻̳̣̰ͅ.̸̴͚̖̻͜͡ ̴̰̩͎̹͝ ̵̢̝͇̱̮͎̤̦̟̣͇̣̘͠ ̴̸̻̜̗̮̣̤̭̯̥̭̬̞̼͡͠ͅ ͢͝҉͖̝͇̠͓̬̩̙̱͎͎͈̫̳͎̻͇ ̵̝͎̰ ̵̡̮̠͇̥̲̤̘̲̻̟̘̠̘̲͓̞̦̳̖̕͜ ̧̧̹̹̮͈̝̲̖̯̣̞͢ͅ ͈̜͓̫͍͎͚̦͘͞ ̨̩̞̗͓̤̟͉̙̟̘̬͢ ̢̤̙̮̙͖̰̲̦̲̤͜͝ ҉̵̨̯̦͍̱̻̙̘̖̫̺̻̦̠̜ ̷̸̛͕͕̮̠̕͜ ̵̢̡͎̯̙̺͖͜͟ ̡͇̺̳͖͈̦̣̝̗̯͜ ̵̧̛̠̘̜͖̯̩͓̪͙̜̲̟͍̯͈̩̳͜͜ ̵̡̡̜͓͇̜̼̪̝̤̼̫̤̺͈̮̩̞̮͢ͅ.͕͇̪͉͙̞̰̘̤̰̳͈̜͖̣̦͚͜͢ͅ_

  


_..̹̫̝̼̩̭̺̰̟̭̤ͅͅ ̘̪̻̪̪̼͎̩͈̻̘͇̞̩̞̙̳ ͚̥͉̠̻̳̟̩̬̰̭̜ ̜͍͚̩̗̬͚͍̥͈̗̰ ̝̺̹̫͕̼͍̫̞̗͓̲̬̦̠͈ͅ ̝̞̬̞͓̘̞͉̰̜͍̼͎̠̝̩̞ͅ ̲͓̰̲ ͉͈̭̭̜͓̙̦̮̥̟͔̬͍̖͕̩̦ ̟̱̖͓̩̰̳̳͇̖̺̱̺̜̬ͅ ͎̭̥̥ ̦͎̖ ͉͖̲͍̞̘ͅ ͕̳̜̯̩͖̮̲̻ ̤͚̥̞ͅ.̣̭̱͍̘͙͚̖̬̳̦͇̪̘̹͖ͅͅ ̻̣̮͖̱͈̮̫͓̙̰̙͉͖̤̻̠͖ ͇̻͎̮̠̭̺̦̩͇ͅ ͇̯̦̹̩̪̮̦̤̞͎̻̗̪͈̖̠̘ͅ ̘͎̘̭͙̼̭͔̼͎ ̰͙̻̦̗̤̦̬̲ ̝̰̣̱̝̱̜̞͓̲̟̺͕̙̻̝̩ͅ ͓͉̳̪ ̥̠̫̟̮̩̰̫̮̯̭̺̩̹̮̣͚̦ͅ ̭͇͈̺̼̩̬̝͈.͖̼̪ ͈̯̟̙̘̝̦ͅ ̲̠̬̤̼̱̭̦͈̻ͅ ̬̲͕̝̞̩͎̫͚̦̟ ̬̣̱̥͓̥̺͇̜ͅ ̻̭̪̲͓̥͇ ̹̹͎̹̙̤̝̰͚̖̩̬̟͖͎͉̣ͅ ̙̱͈̺͈̠̦̬̠͇̼̤̦ ͖̹̩̺͈̼̖̲͉͓̞͎̬̜̲̬̯ͅ.̻̝̳͍͙ ̗͈̦͖͓͔̙̝̦̺͇͓̙͇̬͔̠ ̭̪̹̱͉̠͎̻̰͓͕̻̦ ̰͚̘͕̻͈̩̹͎̗͔̥͇̖̟̖͖̭ͅ ̝̰͖̫ͅ ͔̣̖̲̬̬͓̼̘͈̘̼̯͙̳͙͓̬ ̱̭̥̥͇̳͎ ̹̘̝̠̥̹̳ ̤̫̝̬͙̘̱̬̭̠̭̫͎ ̩̫̩̯̗̭̹͈̹̝̖̩̥ͅ ̱͉̖͇̗͍͍̮̰̮͉͉̳̯̮̰͇̹ ̳̗ͅ ͍̤̩̳̲̩ ̩͍̙̘ ͕̳̖̭̣̣ ̠̤͙͈̞̬ ͎̻̫̤̺̞̲͈͇.̬̺̟̙̠̘̹̤̝͚_

  


_.̵̶̧̪̩̮͕̕ ̬̻̥̰͇̖̺̹̬̠̹͔̣̪͔͜͝͠ͅ ̝̠̣̘͖̩̳̗̰͙̱͜ͅͅ ̕͏̟͓̱̠͕̠̞͉͓ͅ ͟҉̻̱̭̻͔ ̴̵̮̙̖͈͚̩̱̻̠̗̭̝̞̦̥͎͔͢͜ͅ ̳͉̝̺̞̦̬̫̭̳̮̜̮̹̤̲͟ ̬̜̺͔̺̝͍̦̞̞̩̭͍̝̦̹͕͠ ͝҉̰̺̹̯̫̣̭̟͎̘͙̤̳̝͡ ̵͖͍͖͇͜ ̨̢̤̙̟̦͍̝͇̦͖̪̝̻͞ ̧̛̠̝͕̯̘̠̪̬̣̖͇̻̜͎̙͓̺͍͢͝͞ͅ ̨͏̶̥̠̘̙͈̖̥̭̣̻͕̞͘ ̶͎̗̳͔̼͇͚͙̹͓̜͍̩̲̻͇̕̕͢.̸̵̴̼̬̗̤̭͉͎͍͎̞̤͖̞͚͜ ̴͝͝҉̻͖̜͈̪̪̟̠̪̳̭̼͖̤̪̫ͅ ̴̸̳̳̭̥̱̝̤̦͎̙̯͈̗̲͈̻̟̭͘͝͞ ̶̡̮̤̬̙̱̱͓̮̠̘̪̗̤̯̙̣̱͚͘͠ ҉̬̞̹͈̥̟̻̞̭̕ ̷͙̥͇͖̗͎͓̘̫̺̬̖͙̖͉̟͙̦͘͘͟͞  ̷͠͏̭̼͍̭̝͔̤̘͓̝͍͙ͅ ̝͚̰͎̬͍̪̪̪̞͟͠ ҉̢̗̯̦͍̟̯͇͖̝̗͚̻̪̬̳͎̝͟ͅ ̷̙͓̼̞͉̣̫͈͔͈̪͘.̕̕҉͢҉̳̩̳̠̩͚̳͎͉̠̭ͅͅ ̷̷̤̥̣̖̭͈̝͓̤̳͍͖̘̻̕ ̴̣͈͚͉̰̬̤͟ ͏͍͈̙̕ ҉̩̬̥̜̻̦͝ ̶̛̫̻̫̹͎̩̭̩̞̳͙̻͘͜ͅ ̴͏̭͈̪͔̱͉̝̯̯̯̦̗̝͜ ̢̡͙̙͙̦̯̺̬̠̼̥̞̖ ̷̸̺̭͕͉͖̣̖͖͘͞ͅ.̬̳̖̼̰̠̺͞͡ ̡̬̪̲͖̹̤͙̩̬̬̼̮̖ ̷̸̹̩̰͇̬̤̳̘̪̼̯̲̮̰͙͕͝ ̷̢̛̝̲͍̖̠͍̤͖̜̗̟̕͟ ̶̸̴̨̧̻̮̲̬̬̮̘̗̖ ̧̨͍̳̟̦̭̰̗͞͡ ̷̴̯̼̜̺̘̞̠̳̼͔͉̩̜̼̭ ̝̪͍̱̥̖̺̜͉̥̪͠ ̷͈̯̙͢ ̳͍̯̹̰̹̘̙̟̤͇̬̻͈̪̤͍͘̕͟͞͞ ̶̡̢̪͍̻̣̕ ̶̣̪̤̱̥̯̤̱͎̹̫͙̙̻̺̫̺͟͝ͅ ̨̛̖̰͔͕̻̕ ̴̬͓̗͈̤̭̰͉͟ ̠͔̳͎̝̳̺̩͎̗͘ ̸̢͉̙͍̗̲̜̫̰̟͓͇̦̪̕ ̴̧̛̩̹͙̱̺̭͉̝̱̭.̛̝̫̘̤̤̯̹͇̕͡     ̴̼͍̩̮̦̯̤̘̘̜͎̬̦̕̕͞ͅ ̶̵̻͕̺̖͞ ̶̛̕҉̩̮̪̹̞͕͙̜͈ ̴͎̣̼̭͔̜̼͖̯̜̩̰͢ ̴̖̼̬͚̬̹͇̰͎̻͘ ̵̴̪̬͉̺͕͖͟ ̙͉͇̜̯̜̼̦̗̻̬̤͔͠ ̶̴̖̫̤͎̟͝ ̷̡̨̳̥̙̯̫̭̦͙̤͍ .̠̤̰̦̫̣̣̪̤͖͕̩̜̺̘̦͇͢͠ͅ ͔̙̣̤̳̞͖͡ͅ ̶͓͙̝̞͓͇͡ͅ ̴̧̨̼̘̰͘͠ ̵̶̯͔̫͔͇͇̦͍̰͚̱̗̙̠̮ ̸̵̭̫̦̭̰̞̤̱̭̦̦͔̝̬̻̰ ̸̡̛̺̭̪̥̭̞̹͔͡ ̙͕̟̱̼͙̘̝̩̮̼̬̙̳͔̻͡͠ ̢̡̛̼̳͓̲̳͍̙̟̬̻̞͔̟ ҉͚̦͕̟̹͚͉̞̮̭ ̸̤̗̫͙̣̻̪̳͇͟͞ ̴̩͉̬̪̻̠̫͇̗͇̝͡͡ ̶̨̘͇̭̤̼̗̙̝̕̕̕ͅ ̷̵̷̨̼͓͖̥͓̩̹͓̤̻̰ͅ ̷̢̦̹̱̻͕͠ ͏̨҉̥̯̮̤̰̱ ̢̡̲͙̤̼̹͎̗̼̙̕ ̡͏̵̢̼̟̹̫ͅ ̷̱̗̞̹͜͜͞ ̧̦͍͔̗͝ ̙̝̭̫̼̪͈͘͝ ̴̲̦̪͓̲̣̳̹͜ ̸̨̡̬̞͉̜̞ ̡̕͘҉̨̪̙̜̬ ̭̘̖̮̬̖͜͞ ̵̵̛̤̮̭̯͓̯̳̝̻̗͕̬͙̬̬͞.̷͏̰͔̪͝ ̧̨̙̘̻̻_

  


_̬̮̖̜̞̟͍̱͙̥̳͘̕ ҉̸̮̙͓͎͚̲͇͍̪͉͍̟̼͎̗̣̼̣ͅ ̶̡̖̯̥̙͔̣̥̗͢͞ ҉͏̟̞̰̦͎̯̲͓̺͙̤̰̼͍̦͝͞ͅ.͔͉̙͕͍̮̯͎̲̺͓̠̪͍͓̘͙͝͝ͅ ̧̨̘͚̺̥̫̳͍̠̦̝͇͓͇͉̣̥̺͚͞ ̴̢̡̛̮͉͍͔̩͈̬̳ ҉̘̹̗̺͓͔̗̖ ̛̪͖͚̻̞̣͖̥͔͇̥͓̠̫̱͕̫͞ͅ ̵̷͕͚̻͓͢͞ ̵̵͔̯͇̙̙͓͙͕͞͡͡ ̶̨̧̲̞̹͍̮͕̝̭͡ ͈̩̗̯̫̯̥͚̝̤̰̻̲͝.̨͉̫̯͚̪̪̜̝̞̣̜ ҉͏̰̙̝̳͕͔̥̯ ̝̮͙̜̝̭͓̖̯̬̲̜̯̠̮͞͠ ̵̯̘̲̫̻̟̮̬̮̥̣̮̺͖̮̕͘ ̭̩͇͙̮͈̰̪̜̙͇̮̘͕̺͘͡ͅ ͏̡̨͏͎͉͈̼͇̭̝̩̲̘͔͖͉ ҉̺̥̙̙̝̠̜̫̝͚͔̟̯͝ ̶̙͖̱̱͜͟ ̬̭̘̯͙̙̮͕͉̮͎͉̜̠͓̲̬̣̠͜͟͝ ̨̢̨̬͎͔̠̗̞̪̗̮̜͟ͅ ̸̧͉̝̗̺͎̝̻̰͙̻̣̘͖͓̬͟ͅ ̡̠̜͔̖͙͎̠̹̱̭̠̹̕ͅ ̶̮̪͕͢ ̶̛͟͏̠̻̦͍͎͈͓ ̼̱̪̮̮͖̰̰̻͖̙͉̙̺͚̲̖͜ͅ ̷̰̤͓̰̖̤̪̞͈̤̲̣͎̙̟̲̰̩͢ ͕̹̞̫̹͔̰͝.̶͖̻̯̻̥̬͕͙͔͔̥͎͈͉͢͟ ̵̸̭̭̻͙͔̜͕̯̰̮̠̹͢ͅ ̛̹̝̪̬̝̦̳̱̗̝͜ ̷̘̺̟̼͖̟̳̳̳̠͞ ̛̣̻̫̞̘̝̗̘̙̲̟͘ ͏̢̧̥͚̜̪̪̻͍͉͙̦̤͍̝̟͍̝̖͕ͅ ͉̭̘̹͓͙̰̳͓͜ ̷̸̛̰͙͔̖͖̟̭̹͙͟͠ ̨͙̻̭̪̘̫͍̤̝̬̥͓̪̙̗̠̱̲̕ ͡͏̷͔͉̼̖͎̹͍͓̪͉̱̱̞̹̖̬̭ ̢̡̣̺̦̱̱͍̩͇̰͝ ̴̢͉͉̣̝͍̗͖̞̯̹͓͓̩͔̳̤ ̧͏͏̢̢̗̠̫̼̤͙̮̮͎̪ ̼̱̟͉͖͚͘͢͠ ̷͕̘̱̖̤͙̲̺͓͡.͘҉̲̫̗̪͇͔̪̲̮̬̝͚̻̠ ͏̸̗̗̱̦͙̖͠ ̨͢͡_

_.̡͈̤͕͞͠ͅ ̛̥̩͇̗͈̕͠͠ ̷̲̤͍̦̩̗̭̞̲͜͞ ҉͈͕͙͈͓̱̠̪̟̥̻͚͚̲͝ͅ ̜͍̠̠͟ ̡̨͍̖͎̫͎͉̲̭̙̥̹̪̪̠̤͟ͅ ̵̬̯̘̤̪͙͖̦͕̭̮̯͘ͅ ̴̨͟͏̷͓͈̞͍͓͇̖̪̩̥ͅ ̪̣̯̱͘͠ͅ ̴̖̮͚̩͔͓̱͓ͅ ̶̧̮̺͉̠͉̱̗͉͓̠̞̜̥͍ ͏̼̭̲̠͉͘͡ ̵͕͙̟̠̟̦̗͓͕̪͚̩̪͉̥̮̮͜͠ ̧͕̯̣̦͔̘̹̹̻̝͙̼͙̻̜̣͘͟.̲̮̰̞̝͢ ̬̳̪̻̕͢ ̡͏̡̦͚̗͍̙̰̦̺͇͜ͅ ͈͕̤̦͕͚̻͉̫̦͕̼̺̪̭͟ ̮͔̫̘͎͖͖͙̠͕͡͡͡ ̴̸̼̯̜͚͚͚͙͓̜̺̖͎̭͙̣͟͝ ̡҉̕͏̞̩̩̯̫͉̹͉̱̞͇̙͔_

_.̡͈̤͕͞͠ͅ ̛̥̩͇̗͈̕͠͠ ̷̲̤͍̦̩̗̭̞̲͜͞ ҉͈͕͙͈͓̱̠̪̟̥̻͚͚̲͝ͅ ̢̛̰̤̼̣̗̲̭͎̪̬͖̖͙̻̱̭ͅ ̷̶̨͙̰͙͖̹͝ ͏҉҉̷̡̘̪̙̻͙͈͈̝̩̮͙̰ ̷̵̶̞͖̭̜̲̕͝ ̸̡̺͉̱͖̙͙̪͓͟.̛͓͍͍̟̟̦͙͡͡_

_.̡͈̤͕͞͠ͅ ̛̥̩͇̗͈̕͠͠ ̷̲̤͍̦̩̗̭̞̲͜͞ ҉͈͕͙͈͓̱̠̪̟̥̻͚͚̲͝ͅ ̜͍̠̠͟ ̡̨͍̖͎̫͎͉̲̭̙̥̹̪̪̠̤͟ͅ ̵̬̯̘̤̪͙͖̦͕̭̮̯͘ͅ ̴̨͟͏̷͓͈̞͍͓͇̖̪̩̥ͅ_

_.̡͈̤͕͞͠ͅ ̛̥̩͇̗͈̕͠͠ ̷̲̤͍̦̩̗̭̞̲͜͞ ҉͈͕͙͈͓̱̠̪̟̥̻͚͚̲͝ͅ ̜͍̠̠͟ ̡̨͍̖͎̫͎͉̲̭̙̥̹̪̪̠̤͟ͅ ̵̬̯̘̤̪͙͖̦͕̭̮̯͘ͅ ̴̨͟͏̷͓͈̞͍͓͇̖̪̩̥ͅ_

_.̡͈̤͕͞͠ͅ ̛̥̩͇̗͈̕͠͠ ̷̲̤͍̦̩̗̭̞̲͜͞ ҉͈͕͙͈͓̱̠̪̟̥̻͚͚̲͝ͅ ̜͍̠̠͟ ̡̨͍̖͎̫͎͉̲̭̙̥̹̪̪̠̤͟ͅ ̵̬̯̘̤̪͙͖̦͕̭̮̯͘ͅ ̴_

_͏̛̘͙̙͍̣̪̩̭̼̣̝̘ ̧͜͡҉̝̰̼̘̲̗̱͍̟͎̤̞̺͞ ̴̵̙̳̜̞̪̭̪͝͝.̴̖͈̜̙͍̫͢ ҉̴̯͙͔̟̠͓̱͇͙̝ ͙̲̯̮̟̯̯͔̜̼̬̻̬̻̳͔̗̬͝͞͞ͅ ҉҉̲̘̘̖͕̣̰̣̪̬̘̗̟͚ͅ ̧͇̖̮̘̩͔͙̫̬̗̘̞͠ ͠͝͠͏҉̥̹̣̘̳͚̞̲̦̳̬̙̖̱̲̻͈̬_

  
  
  


_͒ͣ̾̆ ̋̇ ̅ͥͦ͗. .͡_

 

_._

 

_. .͡                                 ._

  
_  
_

[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]

 

[... ... ... ...]

 

        [... ...l...]

 

                         [... r...se...]

 

                                        [ ]

 

                                           [ ]

 

_“...... Russell!”_

‘...!!’

 

[Dogma's voice snaps me awake with a start, and sends me scrambling to get my bearings.]

‘Aah, sorry, I’m up...!’

[He just shakes his head at me and gives me one of his agitated sighs.]

_“Honestly… it’s not good to space out like that with everything going on around you. Look, your ice cream…”_

[Before I even see the cone in my hand, I feel the cold liquid running down my arm. All I can do is watch it drip everywhere, make my hand numb, until he gets fed up and aggressively takes a napkin to it.]

_“Ugh, this stuff melts so fast… this is why I prefer to sit down while I eat…”_

[He keeps mumbling quietly to himself as he wipes the sticky mess from my arm. For some reason, I wish he wouldn’t worry so much about it.]

‘... sorry.’

[I say it without thinking, and he gives me an equally thoughtless response without even looking up.]

_“It's fine, Russell. I'm not angry. Just try to be mindful of what you're carrying before you start daydreaming…”_

[His forgiveness still comes so freely and easily, even now.  It hurts. Just seeing him move and hearing him speak makes everything hurt.]

[I thought the pain would stop, but now it hurts ten times as much. ]

_“... There. That should do it.”_

[I’m tired of holding it all in, I’m just. Tired...]

[I can’t take this anymore.]

 

‘I’m sorry, Father… I ruined it... You could’ve had a happy life and a happy family but I was selfish and I ruined it... I’m sorry.’

 

[All he can do at first is give me a deeply perturbed look. I know it’s just nonsense to him, but if saying it will make the pain a little more bearable, I don’t care anymore. If it won’t collapse the whole dream around us, I’ll say anything to lift this suffocating weight on my heart...]

[Finally, he recovers and just shakes it off with another huffy sigh.]

“... It’s late. We’re both tired. We probably overdid it with all that walking. Come on, we need to head home before it gets dark.”

[He takes me by the hand, and I can’t do much but follow behind him as we begin the hike back to town.]

 

[His hand is as cold to the touch as the ice cream.]


End file.
